


a world dearly won

by beverlymarshian



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, happy birthday mike hanlon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25063369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beverlymarshian/pseuds/beverlymarshian
Summary: Spending the last two birthdays surrounded by all his friends was glorious. This year, Mike just wants to spend it with his husband.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon
Comments: 19
Kudos: 66





	a world dearly won

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaspbee (fillory)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fillory/gifts).



> hello this is a meandering fluffy little birthday hanbrough story for my dear friend bee, someone more than worthy of sharing this birthday with mike hanlon. love you beeeeeeeee!!! ty to lou (piggyback), brad (fun date on the town), and call (couch cuddles) for giving my somewhere to start with this.

A cacophonous crash from the kitchen wakes him—first something metal hitting the ground, then the soft pop and rattle of plastic bouncing off the tile, all punctuated by flustered cursing. Not the harsh awakening of an alarm on the side table, not something to reach out blindly, eyes twisted shut, to turn off or snooze. Instead, Mike's eyes open slowly. This is how he wakes most mornings, such that the jarring sound of kitchen chaos has settled into something familiar. A rooster on a farm, songbirds at daybreak, busses starting on their morning routes, and Bill dropping shit in the kitchen.

_ Sorry Mikey! _ he hears Bill shout, another morning routine. Bill is still cursing as he clears off the kitchen, dropping something plastic again. Mike can almost picture it: Bill refusing to make multiple trips down to retrieve the goods, overloading his arms, and letting something (a plastic bottle? They really are trying to cut down on plastics but Bill has a Diet Coke problem) pop out from under his elbow. More cursing follows.

After decades of being a light sleeper (sometimes at the desk, a crick in his neck from using a time-worn book as a pillow; often curled around the radio, waiting for a call to come through, anything suspicious), the Los Angeles heat has worn him down, softened his edges. He doesn't wake at every bump in the night or every shift in temperature, doesn't startle during garbage collection, doesn't even feel Bill slip out of bed most mornings. Instead, the heady heat of a city that always feels warm to him, even in December when the temperatures hit the single digits, lets him sleep soundly each day, until his eyes open naturally or until his clumsy husband makes more noise in the morning than he intends.

Heavy footfalls sound down the hallway, uneven, sliding socked feet on the sleek hardwood, and Bill skids to a stop at the doorway to their bedroom. The worry crease that splits his forehead on the best of days is deep, lips pursed, blinking rapidly. He is wearing one of Mike's shirts, a navy henley that falls down to his thighs, long white socks that hit mid-calf with a bright yellow strip near the top. His hair is slightly damp, wilting as it dries.

"I really was going to let you sleep in," he says, hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck.

"Should have stayed in bed then," Mike teases, brushing sleep from his eyes as he pulls himself upright. He rolls his shoulders and neck, revelling in the pleasant  _ pops _ from a good night's sleep.

Bill's eyes soften, worry slipping from his face as he watches Mike stretch. He crosses the room in a few short strides, knee dropping down to the edge of the bed. Both hands rise to Mike's face, one sliding along his jaw and curling around his neck, the other cupping his cheek. He brings their mouths together in a slow kiss, tasting of peppermint and the smooth dark roast currently in their rotation. Mike's hands slide around his waist to pull him further onto the bed, Bill's small frame falling onto his chest. Bill laughs into his mouth and kisses him deeper, tongues curling together lazily, kissing with no destination.

_ Happy birthday, darling _ , Bill mumbles against his lips, around his tongue, the barest exhale, just as he had done at midnight the night before, bodies falling into bed light from a good dinner and a few glasses of wine, limbs tangled, hands sliding along skin. Like he whispered into Mike's ear again before falling asleep, cheek pressed to Mike’s chest.

Bill's knees on either side of his hips now, Mike drops his hands from his waist, down to the soft hair above his knees, fingers dragging slowly up his thighs. He toys at the hem of the shirt, inching further up, and is gifted with more bare skin on Bill's upper thighs, warm to the touch and slightly damp from the shower. The pads of his fingers brush slowly over the smattering of hair, savouring each patch of skin, teasing closer to his inner thighs. Here the hair giving way to pliant, smooth skin. Mike slides a hand up higher and—

Bill pulls away, a flush riding high on his cheeks, pretty pink lips shining. His breathing is uneven now, quiet little pants that make him break out in a smile. "None of that, we have plans."

Mike groans and flops back onto the bed, letting his eyes close again. "My birthday plans don't involve fucking my husband?"

"I certainly hope they do. But  _ after _ the brunch reservation."

Mike opens one eye to watch Bill. His face is split in a large smile, ear to ear, framed by his coppery stubble (intentionally shaved to that length—they usually stand side-by-side in the mirror, Mike shaving most days until his face is smooth, then watching Bill fidget with guides until he has his carefully-manicured beard down to the length he wants, something he is convinced rides the line between scruffy and polished but is, in fact, far closer to scruffy).

"Where are we going?" he asks, still only one eye open.

"It's a surprise," Bill says lightly, playing with the hem of the shirt and breaking eye contact. He does this when he's trying to keep a secret, like looking Mike straight in the eyes will undo him, will cause him to spill it. It will.

"I don't like surprises."

"You'll like this one!" Bill insists, voice raised and indignant, still refusing to meet his eyes.

Mike leans, both eyes open now, trying to catch his eyes, making this a game because they  _ both _ know that Bill will tell him if he can just catch his gaze, if he can just smile a little at him. They sway together on the bed like this, almost wrestling, sunlight pouring into the room through the curtains they never fully close because Mike loves waking up to the sunlight and Bill loves him. The sun spills across where their bodies meet, Bill's thighs caging his, Mike's hands now back around his waist, twisting to catch his eyes, tickling his sides now. Bill pretends he isn't ticklish but trapped like this, his body bows over until his knees give out and he lands, chest to chest, on Mike, face buried in his neck. They stay there together for a time, laughing against each other's skin, lips trailing, chaste this time, across necks and shoulders.

* * *

They drive from Bill's home— _ their home _ , Mike still fumbles to call it, even after the years, although both their names are on the deed, because it was Bill who bought it, Bill who asked him, shy and vulnerable, if when he was done seeing the world he might want to come stay with him. It was their home, a sprawling single story in Cheviot Hills, the classic LA pool in the backyard but more importantly, for Mike, a garden.

He had spent a long month in spring, shortly after he moved in and finally let Bill talk him into making the house a home, digging the beds himself, putting up fencing, erecting trellis so they could grow green beans and bright plump grapes, vining squash and melons. They spend hours sitting in that garden, grazing on the fruits of their labour, plucking strawberries from the dirt and rinsing them under summer-warmed hose water, pressing them past each other's lips.

Today they bypass the garden for the leisurely drive to Santa Monica, AC off in favour of keeping the windows rolled down in Bill's Model 3, sound system cranked obnoxiously loud like they were listening to an eighties playlist and not an episode of Revisionist History on electoral reform in Bolivia. They get stares at stoplights from neighbouring cars, attention Mike used to shy away from but now makes him laugh. Bill has an unwavering ability to make him feel as if, quite seriously, no one else's opinion matters except theirs.

He still isn't prepared to trust the surprise until they pull into a familiar lot, nondescript for all purposes except for the gem of a restaurant nestled between two empty storefronts, The Court's funky logo staring back down at him.

"We come here every week," Mike says, amused. Sometimes twice.

"Exactly!"

Mike's chest tightens. His last two birthdays were spent with the lot of them, the first at a Thai place in the city where they crowded around a table, loud enough to get kicked out, throwing back shots and shouting raucously until the restaurant closed and they tumbled down the street to the nearest bar. They played music bingo (Ben and Patty demolished them all) and sang along to the songs they knew, bodies pressed close in the booth. He and Bill were new then, hands still nervous on each other's bodies, mouths still learning each other's mouths, each touch in the restaurant and bar like their first touch. Last year, everyone piled into their home, a day of cheating at board games and lying in the pool with their six closest friends, each touch between them still electric but familiar now.

This year, Mike just wanted to spend a normal, quiet Friday with his husband, and he told him as much, but he still worried. The words  _ reservation _ and  _ plans _ swirling around in his head, an image of a night out instead of a night on the couch. Bill didn't disappoint.

Mike waits, patient, as Bill tries to back into the spot in front of the restaurant, eyes fixed on the backup cameras as he adjusts the parking angle. He has been fixated on back-in parking for the past two weeks, since the last time he and Eddie got lunch and Eddie backed into every spot with only a half glance over his shoulder, sliding clean between the lines, scowling when Bill asked him why he didn’t just forward park. Bill has had decidedly mixed results so far but is dead-set on proving he can do it.

Once he is satisfied (definitely on the line on Mike's side but  _ technically _ in the spot, as Bill would say) Mike leans over the centre console to press a small kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you," he says, voice low, dearly drowned out by the podcast. "This is perfect."

"Oh no, this is selfish," Bill says, flustering under the praise. "Was really craving a breakfast sandwich, nothing to do with you."

Mike laughs under his breath, and lets him have this. "Terrible husband, ulterior motives on my birthday."

This makes Bill smile and it doesn't fall off his face for all of breakfast, not as they slide into their usual booth, not as Bill  _ doesn't _ actually order a breakfast sandwich but gets lobster and waffles as always, not as he drinks half of Mike's lemonade before giving up and ordering his own, then letting Mike have half of that.

They eat a long, leisurely breakfast—heavy, satiating fare that goes straight to the gut and makes them both sleepy, ankles hooked loosely together under the table, Bill making up the ending to the podcast episode they heard and then asking Mike for the real ending, like Mike just knew the answer to every question. Mike teases him for this every time,  _ google exists, you know _ , but he does know the ending to this story, so he leans low over the table, plates cleared, and regales him with the riveting tale of election by lottery.

* * *

They walk off their breakfast at the pier, a hot summer breeze blowing salty sea air over their faces, Bill’s loosely-gelled hair falling free, down over his forehead, the way Mike likes it. They get ice cream that melts too quickly down the sides of the cones, fingers sugar-sticky long after they are sucked clean in a fashion far too erotic for a walk along the boardwalk.

They walk until they shake off the sleepiness from breakfast, energy renewed just as the sun hits the peak of the sky, beating down heavily on their bodies. They talk as they always do—endlessly, topics sliding into each other, intertwining, about Mike’s latest draft of his thesis (it’s not his first PhD, and it won’t be his last), about Bill’s research for his next novel, about the third wedding in a row among their friends and how fun it will be to get out of the city.

They walk, sticky fingers intertwined, until they hit the end of the pier and then they turn around and walk back, two people enjoying the setting of course (because what is not to love about a sea breeze and the sounds of children on summer break, the view of the sun on the water, of first dates and fiftieth dates), but there for the company.

Near where they started, outside the ice cream storefront, two teenagers are holding hands, leaning close, not a first date from the looks of things. One girl ducks down, waving at her girlfriend to hop up on her back. She protests for a moment before giving in, wrapping tightly around her date, before being hoisted into the air. She gives a shriek as they totter before settling into a steady stance. Bill gives him a wicked smile.

“You want a piggyback ride?” Mike asks, amused, entertaining the idea.

“Nope!” Bill says cheerily, then ducks down, arms splayed behind him, mirroring the motion of the girls near the ice cream stand. Mike stares, baffled.

“Absolutely not.”

“Hop on!”

“I would squash you like a bug.”

Bill, undeterred, starts by wiggling his fingers, walking backwards into Mike, bumping his ass against Mike’s thighs, almost chasing him as Mike swats him away. The girls at the ice cream stand are watching closely, giggling behind their hands, and they are drawing the attention of several others.

When they first started dating, Mike was always caught off guard by how loud Bill was, how much he gave of himself, how he didn’t care who was watching when he loved another person. Now Mike loves him aloud back, shoving him away, retreating from Bill’s attempts to goad him into a piggyback, laughing and laughing until finally he slips his arms around Bill’s middle and lifts him from the ground in a clear sweep.

“Cheating!” Bill shouts, legs pinwheeling in the air as Mike pulls him to his chest.

“Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it?” Mike laughs against his neck, lips brushing over sun-pink skin.

Laughter pours from their onlookers, having switched sides from cheering Bill on to loud whoops for Mike, keeping Bill off the ground like he weighs nothing. He doesn’t actually, and there is a strong chance this little episode comes back to bite him in the ass tomorrow when his back aches from the poor posture and improper lift, but he just keeps Bill pinned close against his chest until he admits defeat, slumping in his arms.

When he sets Bill down on the ground, hands still wrapped around his torso to steady him, Bill turns in his arms to give him a long, slow kiss, until the laughter and the pier fades away and their bodies melt into the sunny July afternoon.

Then, as promised, Bill tugs him back to the car, sun still riding high in the sky, barely past one, to spend the rest of the day at home. They skip to the next episode of the podcast, Bill less interested in hearing the hosts’ version of events than Mike’s, weaving through the easy midday traffic, this time half-listening to the tale of a lost Van Gogh still life painting.

The day spins on in a soft-focus blur, quite like any other day they spend together. After finishing what Mike tried to start that morning, after a quiet, simple dinner cooked together, with Bill stirring the risotto while Mike cooked salmon they picked up at the pier and asparagus from their garden, after a few glasses of wine by the pool, knees hooked over the edge into the water, the two of them settle inside the house.

They rarely turn the lights on in the house, especially not in the summer, and as the evening stretches on today is no exception. The pinky-orange sunset streams into their living room through the blinds, bathing the room in a warm hue. Mike lays on the couch, cushion tucked between his back and the armrest. Bill rests between his legs, head on his chest, one arm tucked around his middle, breathing steady and slow together as they take in a new docuseries, this one about alien abductions and unsolved disappearances.

Mike leans down to press a kiss to the crown of Bill’s head and receives a soft sound in return, before Bill angles his head up to bring their lips together again. They kiss for long minutes there, an episode passing them by, nothing urgent about the way their mouths slide together, the way he sucks Bill’s lower lip between his teeth, the way their hands find each other again to tangle together. When the next episode starts, Bill settles back on his chest and they breathe together again.

“A good birthday?” Bill asks sleepily from his chest, face pressed into Mike’s shirt, breathing him in.

Here in their house, television set low, sun setting, bodies too warm where they are pressed together but both too comfortable to move, Mike knows the answer. “The best.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out [@beverlymarshian](https://twitter.com/beverlymarshian)! Title from Name for You by the Shins.


End file.
